Conrad
sauntered into Lacey's bar and took his accustomed place on one of the
high stools, which settled with a disconcerting lurch. He wriggled
in an effort to find a more stable base, causing the stool's feet to
scrape against the mock-wood beneath with teeth-jarring effect.
Roach glanced up to favour him with a sour look that bisected a smile
and a grimace - his customary form of greeting.

Roach
was a constant feature at Lacey's. He ate there, drank there and
worked from there. For all Conrad knew, he might even have slept
there.

“Another
lousy day,” he observed.

“Aren't
they all,” Conrad responded, completing a ritual that had become established
between them an age ago. My-Ling materialised at the other side
of the counter, armed with a coy smile and a glass of gently effervescing
beer. She was not coy, as Conrad well knew; it was just part of
the camouflage she presented when at work. With a grunt he fished
in his pocket for some coins, forcing his fingers beneath the tight
crease formed by his trousers and wishing he had thought to take the
money out before sitting down.

Beer
paid for, his eyes settled on the television. It sat above the
bar and currently featured a news or current affairs programme.
The image switched from a reporter to a close-up of President Kelly;
coverage of a recent speech, by the look of it. Grey-blue eyes
gazed straight at the camera for an instant, integrity oozing from every
pore of his craggy, near-handsome face. The volume was set too
low to make out individual words - a minor mercy for which Conrad was
grateful. The picture then cut to a long shot from the same event,
the President shaking hands with some dignitary or other.

“Do
we have to have that thing on?” Conrad complained. He had his
own reasons for not wanting to look at the President more often than
necessary.

My-Ling
shrugged and clearly had no intention of switching it off. A deliberate
act of perversity - she knew
how much he loathed watching that man and why.

“I
hate this town,” Roach said to no one in particular.

No
he didn't; more camouflage. Slate was not the sort of place that
anyone stayed in unless they wanted to, and Roach had been there for
as long as anyone could remember. The comment did not require
a response and Conrad duly obliged by ignoring it.

The
story went that the town's founders had called the new settlement Slate
because it represented a new beginning, a chance to start again, to
'wipe the slate clean'. Conrad had his own theory. He
believed the place had been called Slate because it was cold, hard and
grey. Of course, not everyone shared his jaundiced view - it was
all a question of perspective, with his particular perspective being
from the bottom looking up.

As
with any place that had been established for a while, Slate inevitably
evolved its own districts and strata. There were those who had
done very well for themselves - affluent types who lived in nice, upmarket
suburbs. Anyone who saw only these areas might be forgiven for
thinking this was a nice place to live. But that was just the
icing; lift it up and you would soon find the crumbling layers of stale
pastry hidden beneath.